For the second time in three seasons, Villas Over 50s stepped onto the hallowed turf at the famous old Headingley cricket ground.
Time worn bodies, archaic skills but with a competitive spirit still burning as brightly as the late summer sun.
In a repeat of the 2013 semi-final, our opponents were Nidderdale Not-So-Youngs, a league side picked from the care homes of the Dales venturing down into the big city. The land owners would surely batter the peasants before retiring to their country retreats.
We arrived accompanied by an unbelievable support that was to prove our “Twelfth Man” as the day unwound to a dramatic conclusion under thunderous black clouds. For this day only, Headingley was ours.
It was hard not to notice the nerves bouncing around like the thunder would much later. Guys I had shared a dressing room and so much more for decades, enjoying every high and low possible, looked around for encouragement from each other.
Spare a thought too for those that missed the “cut”; you can only pick eleven and sport, reflecting life, can feel cruel as we have all experienced. We had three “new caps” from 2013, experiencing this surreal experience for the first time.
Club stalwart Martin “Molly” Molyneux had a lump in his throat and confessed he’d not felt as nervous since the night he and wife Carol had “got cracking”. Had they played “Jerusalem”, I swear the tears would have flooded down those chubby cheeks.
Andy Moulds, for years a thorn in the Villas side and a magnificent batter at his peak, looked as if he could barely hold a bat. Wife Debs gave him a friendly cuff around the ears with her truncheon and all was well again; police brutality has a place.
Meanwhile, Devon Beckford looked like he had seen a ghost. His lovely lady gently held his hand, slipped a few more pills and silently offered a prayer for her man to get through unscathed.
As team-mates in the main, old foes in some cases, most of us had come a long way together over several decades. We had this beautiful old game with all it’s eccentricities, struggling for a place in the fast pace of modern day life, to celebrate on this perfect day. How many more would there be like this?
In the dressing room there was a variety of pills sufficient to keep a Mexican drug cartel in business; enough contact lenses to open a branch of Specsavers and tubi-grip to kit out the cast of Strictly.
It was time for the toss and Captain Chaos Brennan made his way to the middle with Lord Nick of Nidderdale, the opposing skipper looking down at his scruffy opponent as if he were his gardener.
A smudge of sun-block was perched stubbornly on the little fellow’s nose like stray pigeon droppings. Lord Nick offered a gold sovereign, Chaos flicked his 10p piece defiantly into the air.
We lost and were asked to bat – Lord Nick was hatching a plot to beat the certain rains coming later in the day – on the same wicket used only months ago for the England versus New Zealand test match; pinch me I really must be dreaming I thought.
Chaos hung around for an interview with Sky’s David Gower to explain his choice of the tried and tested opening partnership from BVCC Under 14s (1976) despite the high incidence of run-outs over the years since.
My Mum sat stiffly in her seat knowing, from years of painful watching, that there may be trouble ahead. The old man viewed the bar and wished he had taken the time to teach her how to drive all those years ago.
Since we started playing, my old mate Duck and I have run each other out at will. The lifetime score is still way in his favour but I got one back on him after a bright start, leaving him not in the frame and in no need of the third umpire.
He limped off forlornly muttering back encouraging words such as “daft twat!”
“Not again” sighed my Mother “they’ve been doing that to each other since they were nine!”
Fortunately Duck’s Dad Billy cannot see far these days so I was spared a bollocking and another falling out of our respective parents.
“Alan’s out” informed my Mum as Billy peered into the distance.
“How?” enquired Billy reliant on my Mum’s impartiality.
“Shit shot” she muttered, simultaneously seeking the skies for forgiveness.
In came the legendary Mouldsy, striding across the turf shaking like a nervous Rodney from Only Fools And Horses. They brought on a spinner, bowling Mouldsy would have dispatched to all parts of the stratosphere in his pomp.
He patted the first six balls back and came down the wicket ashen faced. I’d no idea what to say as I’d never see him go six balls without scoring, especially against us.
Maybe he needed a field of cows to target as he used to do at Harden CC’s lovely Cuckoo’s Nest ground with dear departed Browny feeding his leg-stump flick for six seeking an elusive weakness.
“Calm down old chap” hardly seemed to work.
His old skipper and mentor, Gilly, sat in the stands, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
“Just twat it!” he offered from the depths of his coaching knowledge.
After a few thick edges from my flashing blade, it was time to depart with a not-out for the statisticians, desperately trying to avoid Billy’s gaze and walking stick.
In came Chaos, in the form of his life, striding to the wicket like Captain Mainwaring as befitting his day leading Dad’s Army.
Mouldsy started to find his range, telescopic arms launching the ball to all parts. Those of us old enough – which meant all – were reminded of the famous Richie Benaud quote describing a six hit by Ian Botham way back in the glorious summer of 1981; we beat the Aussies that year too!
“Don’t bother looking for that, let alone chasing it. That’s gone straight into the confectionery stall and out again.”
Richie may never have commentated on dross like us but he would surely have understood our shared love of the game.
As Mouldsy departed undefeated, one great was replaced by another with Villas icon Brent Shackleton. Never had I seen the big man so nervous – dropped twice in two balls – before launching a trademark yahoo shot way over the ropes sending the crowd wild.
“Go on Dad!” shouted daughter Laura, throwing her one year-old up in the air for mum Sue to expertly catch a few rows back. You don’t watch as many games as Sue without learning how to catch.
In came Rick Lawrence (RSL) who had been fidgeting on the edge as well, conscious that nobody had yet “failed”. Why do we torment ourselves so much in the pursuit of sport and so late in our lives? Worries were erased with a trademark square cut and he was “on the board”.
Tony Brown, well used to the big stage as an ex-pro footballer and clearly not bothered about batting at Headingley in his wife’s plimsolls, strode to the centre. A flick off the legs a la Viv Richards and still no dreaded duck.
Soon it was Andy “Tubbs” Taylor batting with a sand-wedge, chipping the ball to all parts and running as if he had a diving suit on.
“Run Forest, run!” implored Chaos from the edges and yet it was RSL’s dodgy limbs that gave way again, twanging like a beggar’s guitar string and causing chaos as Chaos insisted on re-joining the fray to be his “runner”.
Poor old Tubbs looked like he would need the St John’s Ambulance stretcher to carry him from the field as Chaos ran him into the dirt. Tubbs had not sweated as much since his nightclub days at VIPs, dancing countless nights away in his lime green Top Man jacket with rolled up sleeves.
And then the moment the crowd had been waiting for as Molly, Knight of the Village of Denholme, strode to the wicket, glasses misting up, clutching the breast of his Villas shirt, humming Jerusalem like a man making his last march out of the trenches.
His first run was greeted with delirium from the terraces as he charged to the other end like a giant, strutting peacock.
“Tha’s done it all now lad” he could be heard saying to the umpire over the stump microphone. Wife Carol punched the air too, overcome by pride but knowing this would demand extra willpower to get him out of the pub later.
With two balls to go, in came our number 11 and team veteran, Lynton.
Determined not to be outdone, he punched the ball into the offside and set off.
The ball went straight to the fielder…would Lynton make it?
He threw his body at the line, albeit a few yards too early as the ball was returned.
With a dive that most Premier League footballers would have been proud of, he got to the other end in a crumpled, mucky heap, face down but happy beyond belief.
At the break we had another Braveheart speech from Chaos – “let’s rip their hearts out warriors” – as jelly beans were mixed with Ibuprofen.
We charged (limped) onto the lush turf as the crowd went wild again and my mum threw the old man’s hat in the air, waking him up in an instant.
Rain was coming and Duckworth-Lewis would clearly now determine the result. It was cat and mouse as Lord Nick & Co had to keep up with the calculated rate with us needing wickets to peg them back.
Devon opened from the Rugby Stand End, racing in like Michael Holding, at least for three balls. Molly came down the hill – all two paces – from the Kirkstall Lane End.
Wicket!
Molly had bowled Lord Nick’s opening partner to wild applause from the stands – we were ahead – thunder was rumbling in the distance. Lord Nick sensed it was now or never and picked up the pace.
Earlier in the day I’d mused that nobody had tried a sliding stop. As the ball flew to the boundary edge I sensed my chance and launched the old body at the ball. The stop was made but ribs met ball and – as ever – ball won.
Sympathy was in short supply and Captain Chaos even looked relieved that I would not be able to ball.
The crowd were hushed again.
Wicket!
A mix-up between the batters and the bails were whipped off by the now one-legged RSL with glee. Once again we were ahead as the first rain drops spotted the now delirious crowd.
They caught us up again, it was nip and tuck as the groundsmen ventured from their shed to get the covers ready; there would be no returning here.
Wicket!
Another mix-up as they panicked and Chaos swooped on the ball, rolling back the years. Billy waved his cap in the air, beer cans were squeezed and the sadly missed Browny was probably cheering from way on high above.
Shackleton replaced Devon, hobbling down the hill on knees that had bowled more overs than many a “pro”. Tubbs replaced Molly almost bowling under arm but now the clouds poured and we had done it.
We ran for cover knowing there would be no turning back. If we never achieve another thing on a cricket field – and at our ages that’s most probable – nobody can ever take away the day Villas won at Headingley.
To all those that turned up to cheer us on a big thank you too. Roll on one last summer’s afternoon Sunday September 13th at Scarborough’s famous old Marine Road ground.
John Molyneux says
What about my swag fielding on the boundary?? Ball hit me in the ribs and I didnt feel a thing